


a splash or two of shadows

by elliptical



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Artist!Dave, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Post SBURB, it's pretty much just fluffy, there's a TINY BIT OF ANGST BUT NOT THAT MUCH OK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliptical/pseuds/elliptical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has memorized the curve of Dave's spine, the pads of his fingertips, the shape of his jaw, and the texture of his eyelashes.  He has seen Dave naked and clothed, showered and smelly, broken and whole.  He has sleepily woken beside the boy to find him scribbling in a sketchpad, shades off, brow furrowed.</p><p>John has never seen Dave's artwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a splash or two of shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lash/gifts).



> i'm gonna give this to my matesprit  
> also i wish i could draw... i can see all of dave's artwork perfectly in my head but i cannot art to save my life

After the game is over, everything goes back to normal. You get your guardians back, you have a universe that holds trolls and humans and carapaces... it's pretty much perfect. Everything is better. Or at least it should be.

You never exactly expected to end up with Dave Strider.

The boy tries too hard but he's easy to read, walks with swag but his shoulders slump. He's afraid of casting shadows and afraid of standing in them, afraid of failing, afraid of losing people. He's a hero who never wanted the role, a tiny bit of a mess, and your best friend. He's a huge fucking dork who occasionally has the potential to be cool. He's your favorite person in the world, but there's a lot he never shares with anyone.

One of the first things you learn is that Dave is actually a very private person. No matter how many ironic social networking profiles he keeps, his real thoughts almost always stay hidden behind sarcasm and self-deprecation. That's the way it's always been. You don't mind much. You just sort of wish he'd talk to you more often.

You have memorized the curve of Dave's spine, the pads of his fingertips, the shape of his jaw, and the texture of his eyelashes. You have seen Dave naked and clothed, showered and smelly, broken and whole. You have sleepily woken beside the boy to find him scribbling in a sketchpad, shades off, brow furrowed.

You have never seen Dave's artwork.

Until the day he asks if you want to look.

Of course you tell him sure, you’ll look. From the way he talks about it, you guess it’s not the kind of thing you should snark over.

When he pulls out his sketchbook and lets you flip through charcoal and colored pencil drawings, though, you discover you don’t have a sarcastic thing to say.

He hovers anxiously over your shoulder as you look, trying to appear aloof and failing miserably. “I should have used a lighter color pallet,” he says as you examine a sun-streaked drawing of LOLAR, attempting to figure out exactly how he made it look like the world was illuminated using only pencil.

You turn the page.

“The anatomy is all off,” he says as you look at a shady green sketch of kids playing in a park.

“I messed up on the shadows” –

“Shhh,” you say, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “These are beautiful.”

“They’re not that good.”

“They’re pretty fucking good, Dave.”

You turn over and find a black-and-white Terezi, charcoal sketched in sleep, hair covering her face. For a second you actually think it’s a photograph before you notice the tiny mistakes here and there, smudges and light misplaced lines. Holy shit.

“This is _really_ good.”

“I pretty much worked the hardest on that one. Took hours.”

“I hope she gave you permission to watch her sleep.”

He snorts. “Permission to watch her sleep wasn’t the only thing I got, bro.”

“She’s really beautiful, huh?”

“Kind of. Don’t tell me you’re getting jealous.”

“Never. I’m just amazed, I guess. I wasn’t… really expecting this. I mean, I was expecting you to be good! Or at least better than your online work. But… nothing like this.”

“I practice a lot.”

“I’ll say.”

“It’s a little like a journal, I guess, since I’m clearly a twelve-year-old girl who has a lot of inner feelings to gush about. I sketch when I’m stressed out, or when there’s shit I need to get out of my head. I mean – the art gets darker the farther into the book you go, so, uh, sorry in advance.”

“I think it’s really sweet that you’re letting me see this. And it’s cute how nervous you are.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Not really.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders and bring his mouth down to yours, tracing your tongue along his bottom lip. He tastes the same as he always does, and he breathes out against your skin as he kisses back.

You break away from the kiss to turn another page, and catch your breath.

“I – yeah. That one.”

It’s all shadows and harsh lines and the red glow of LOHAC, more a scribble than anything. You can see places his pencil tore through the page or the point broke, like his hand was unsteady, and the paper is kind of wrinkled. You look up at Dave and see him swallow. Look back down at the drawing.

It’s his bro.

His bro dead and bloody, head turned away so it can’t be seen, a silhouetted figure behind him. Dark tendrils creep across the ground toward the body, like they’re going to pull it into the lava. The silhouette wields a sword and jagged lines, the darkest part of the whole picture, and god

you actually feel pain.

Dave lets out a forced laugh. “Dramatic as fuck, right?”

“Dave…”

Another page turned, the cracked universe. Light seeping out, reds and golds amid stark black.

“At least the game gave me some good inspiration.”

The next page is nothing but bloody, golden feathers, scattered across the white paper.

“Shit, I forgot that was in there,” Dave says, and you wonder why this of all things would be the picture to break him. He leans down and takes the sketchbook from your hands, his movements jerky, as though he wants to snatch the art but doesn’t want to risk ripping anything. You give it up easily. You're a sarcastic asshole most of the time, but you know how important this is to him, and if he doesn't want you looking... you're not going to look.

“You okay?”

“I shouldn’t have showed you that. That was stupid of me. Sorry. You’d think I’d learn to keep shit to myself, it’s like, man, I am mackin’ so hard on this guy, he clearly must want to know about all of the random shit I do in my spare time” –

“Come here,” you say.

He puts the book down on his bed and walks over to you, measured, because Striders never show they’re bothered. You reach up and wrap your arms around his waist, tugging him onto your lap, and kiss his cheek.

“You’re very talented, Dave.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“You are.” You kiss across his jaw and nibble lightly on his earlobe. “And I’m really glad you trusted me enough to show me.”

“You didn’t even see all of it.”

“I saw some,” you say, sort of nuzzling against his neck.

“I draw my nightmares.”

You hug him closer, bringing a hand up to twine through his hair, kissing his lips softly. “You still have nightmares?”

“You don’t?”

“Not so much – not anymore. Sometimes, but not so much.”

“I still have them every night. Lame as shit. Switch my brain with yours.”

Nibble on his bottom lip, closing your eyes. “Sorry, I’m not sure I could work that.”

“Anyway, yeah, now you know how my brain works a little.”

“You should wake me up. When you have nightmares, I mean.”

“Ughh, but then we’ll both be tired as opposed to just me being tired. And you turn into such a douchebag when you’re exhausted, I swear to god. You’re like a fuckin’ hag in one of those creepy old fairy tales. The original versions, not the sugarcoated American ‘everything is happy princesses’ crap.”

“I love you.”

You’ve said the words before, but they’re usually calculated – you have to decide what’s the right place and right time. Too often you’ve caught him off guard and he’s frozen up, apparently wondering how to respond, because Dave is a hell of a lot more socially awkward than he lets on over the Internet. But in this moment, in this time, he is soft and beautiful and perfect, and he’s a pain in the ass and a douchebag, and he’s a warm weight in your arms, and you don’t ever want to let him go.

He relaxes the tiniest bit against you. You know because his posture slips, back slumping, the tiniest touch of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Say that again.”

“Dave, you already know I love you.”

“You just discovered I have angsty soul feelings tucked away deep under my cool kid façade. I’m a tragic, tortured victim. Tell me again.”

You roll your eyes but comply. “I love you,” you say, kissing his lips once, twice. “I love you.”

“Excellent. My diabolical plan is working.”

“Promise me you’ll wake me up?”

“John” –

“Promise.”

“Fine, fine,” he says with the most longsuffering sigh possible. “I promise. When you’re all pissy and sleep deprived, though, I don’t want anybody blaming me. You brought this shit on yourself.”

“Sure.”

“I really am okay. I’m not just saying that so you won’t worry. I mean, I have nightmares and get anxious as fuck and flip out about stupid shit, but I’m okay. I think it’ll pass.”

“And even if it doesn’t, I’m right here for you.”

“Yeah, there’s that.”

“And you’re a really, really good artist.”

He actually smiles at that, tucking his head against your shoulder.

“Maybe we should take a nap,” you whisper.

“Maybe.”

And here you are, gods of time and wind, and you feel the seconds passing and the breath moving in and out of your bodies. Briefly, you wish you had Dave's powers, because you would stretch this moment forever – live eternally in this bedroom where your boyfriend is nestled safely in your arms and there’s nothing to fear.

Instead you keep your eyes shut and bask in the stillness of the air around you, the infinite peace of the moment. It’s been a long time since you felt completely safe anywhere. You know your dad is back at your house baking because Dave’s spending the night, and he will never let a guest go unfed. You know Dave’s bro is in the other room messing around with turntables and headphones. You know that nobody is dead or dying, that there are no people coming to stab you, that you’re a seventeen-year-old boy, that you can rely on your dad and wake up in the morning without wondering if you’ll see the night.

Dave breathes out against your skin, and you hope he feels it too.

“I love you,” you whisper again.

His only response is a small hum of contentment.

You think maybe, just maybe, if you tried – maybe you really could stretch this peace for always.


End file.
